Change of Venue
by Sandra J
Summary: Hardcastle and McCormick try to adjust to eachother, bringing different agendas to the table.


Change of Venue

Change of Venue

By Sandy J D

Hardcastle was a man who simply never rested. He was always moving, working, pacing or even simply drumming a finger. When he slept, which seemed like very little, he moved restlessly in the bed, twisting the covers tightly around himself like a winding cloth and woke most days before sunrise fighting sheets as if they were the bindings of a strait jacket of his own making, translated from a sleeping mind fighting against its perceived weaknesses.

And he kept moving during the day. Projects, adventures, physical activity all kept him from retreating into his own mind, reliving the pains that had defined his life in its later stages. Moving forward meant leaving the past where its pain couldn't catch up with him...where his wife was happy and his son was alive, where he had a job with status and the future was open, a blank slate just waiting to be written. He hadn't foreseen his life being a tragedy. And wouldn't remember it like that either.

That's why he had McCormick.

McCormick was NOT his son. But he WAS a young man with a decent future that he'd messed up because of lack of guidance. And Hardcastle was obliged to uphold the law, even though it seemed a bit tough in McCormick's case. He couldn't change that law, but maybe he could mold the boy by providing a good example to him. And that's what he'd been trying to do, trying being the key word.

Hardcastle paced along Seagull beach, his bare feet slapping at the cool compacted sand at the edge of the ebbing tide. When he was younger, just a family man with a young son and a wife sweet and laughing, he used to run to the beach when the tide was roiling, crashing in against the shore, the water lolling there for a brief moment and then dashing away…repeating the action with the playfulness of a golden retriever with a ball and a small boy. He would dash into the waves holding his son's small hand in his own, letting the boy feel the power in what some would view as an insubstantial liquid. But Hardcastle knew that true power lay in being fluid and able to change, instantly if needed.

The ocean came in with a roar, tossing pebbles and sand with a soft swish, lifting up the small boy who clung to his father's hand, trusting its support, feeling the strength when his little legs were swept from beneath him. He should have been carried to sea like a frigate to destinations unknown or pulled under the glistening surface to the silence and languid movement below. But he never would be as long as his father held his hand. He knew that. His father knew that.

Those were the days, Hardcastle thought to himself. Now he visited the shore at ebb tide, when the ocean's power had moved further out to another shore where high tide was rising, pulling and sucking at the land around it, grabbing frantically at the shore. But here the water was simply soft edges and comfort like his grandma used to be.

Like he was afraid of becoming.

Damn it, he wasn't old! He wasn't soft! He had simply retired because he didn't want to grow old and rigid on a hard bench. He wanted to experience more of life. His eyes had been opened to the limitations of his job, of the potential to continue to bring justice to the world…like some comic book character.

In his mind he still had the muscles and broad shoulders of Superman, the speed of The Flash even though his hair was white and thinning enough that he felt compelled to comb it over to the side a little more each year. Old wasn't a number or a chronology…that was experience. Old was curling up in an easy chair with a classic book and an extra sweater, maybe even a blanket over your legs. It was eating supper before five o'clock at night. And mostly it was worrying about whether, well, all the bodily functions were functioning.

Hardcastle stopped his relentless pacing and turned to face the Pacific Ocean. Now it was calm, moving like an old lady in a rocking chair. But six hours from now it would be roaring back barely recognizable in its power. He nodded. Every thing ebbed and flowed…power…desire…and mostly just life. He wouldn't dwell on the ebbs of his life but instead would try to catch the flow as it rose once again.

"Judge," his new charge whined, drawing out the single syllable and letting the tone rise and fall like a petulant child. "I appreciate what your doing for me, I mean after sending me to prison and teaching me some valuable lessons like, oh let's see…don't drop your soap in the shower, always have a few cigarettes even if you don't smoke…and yes! The big lesson here is that you should never trust anyone but yourself."

Hardcastle watched McCormick shake his head in frustration, the sandy curls bobbing. His own son would have been only a few years younger, maybe shorter though as his wife had been petite. Rome wasn't built in a day, he reminded himself as he raised an eyebrow to the younger man's protest. He definitely had some teaching to do here.

"The big lesson here is that you are being given a second chance," the judge admonished. "You are being given a roof over your head, three meals a day, and work."

McCormick sighed, more a heavy exhalation. "Let's see…Race car driver to gardener and go-fer…that seems like a bit of a demotion."

"Let's see," Hardcastle responded. "Convicted offender to legally employed, well fed and comfortably housed. That sounds like an upgrade to me."

He shot McCormick a toothy grin that wasn't reinforced by his icy eyes. "And remember, you're going to help me clear up some old files that need resolution."

McCormick threw up his hands and sighed heavily, shaking his head and turning his glance to the floor. He hadn't been given a lot of options and this had seemed the best. He needed to make the most of it.

"Okay Judge, you got me." He raised his face to meet the Judges. "Use me."

"That's more like it," the Judge nodded his approval. "So get outside and weed the gardens. And start with the one in the back, the one with the vegetables in it. You know the one I usually do."

"Sure thing," Mark sighed, his voice compliant, but his posture defiant.

Hardcastle saw the conflict in the younger man, the desire to shake off the shackles of his confinement at Gull's Way. He understood that. It was part of maturing, and this young man had a bit of maturing to do still. He needed guidance until he could make morally correct decisions, something he hadn't received in the past. All those racing people were out to make money off the young man, their guidance was skewed. And from what he'd learned in his own investigating McCormick's family life had been less than ideal, dead beat dad that ditched him and mom that had to work too many hours to support them both. Little guidance led to independence with no real judgment skills. Hardcastle suspected that his new charge had many skills that he had yet to find out. Well, together they would discover McCormick's talents.

Hardcastle watched McCormick through the open window. He had started weeding and grumbling on the easier end of the garden. He moved aside the foot high leaves of the bush beans and plucked at the stubborn weeds, moving along to the pole beans where more ground showed. Hardcastle could smell the warm soil as the younger man disturbed it, loosening and pulling up the soft ground. Hardcastle smiled to himself as he heard McCormick complain about dirty jobs. Weeding wasn't fun he knew that because he was the one who usually did the vegetable garden. But weeds, like many of life's problems, were there to teach a lesson. They were problem which if left to grow would sap the goodness out of the soil and endanger the welfare of the plants. They set their roots deep and resisted eradication, requiring strength to remove them. But oh when they came out, tossed away from the cultivated plants, the soil was so loose and soft that the vegetables had room to stretch out their own roots, becoming stronger and healthier. It was like deadheading flowers. The withered blooms had to be removed in order for the plant to produce more flowers.

The kid had a lot to learn.

Hardcastle smiled a little as Mark moved into a more densely weeded area, the turnip bed. The young man was moving right along, hunched over and employing a two handed pulling technique. He tossed the weeds into the wheelbarrow which was already more than half full. He could hear more grumbling and his name tossed into the mix. Nothing he didn't expect. The sun burned down and even though autumn was fast approaching the afternoons were still pretty warm. A fine sheen of sweat moistened McCormick's neck and the back of his sleeveless tee shirt bore a spreading triangle of dampness. The Judge watched, noticing how his charge was becoming ever steadier, yanking less with each weed liberated and finessing the recalcitrant invaders with nimble fingers. He's getting close to the surprise, Hardcastle smiled to himself.

Hardcastle let his mind drift once again to those carefree days that he had let slip away without fully appreciating them. The vegetable garden had been bigger then even though he had less time to tend to it. He'd always thought that having fresh vegetables picked from their own garden would be a wonderful family memory. And working the soil with his hands was soothing, though he had little time to do that back in those days. He had been ambitious in his career and let it consume much of his life. But he'd still tried to make family time.

He remembered his son coming out to help him weed the vegetable garden. His little boy hands pulling out more than weeds, his delight at finding worms and beetles, ladybugs and crickets and even some surprise vegetables. Hardcastle always planted something that could grow surrounded by weeds, hidden in the garden and waiting to be discovered. For many years now it had been left to the gardener or Sara or sometimes even himself to find it. And most times he had done it simply out of habit, of not wanting to let go of that tiny piece of long ago that meant to much to him. He wouldn't admit it to anyone else, his son and his wife were gone, but he planted the surprise vegetable for himself. It kept the past alive.

And today, as he watched McCormick go from angrily weeding the garden to moving steadily and calmly among the swaying plants. The garden was already looking less congested and Hardcastle thought he could almost hear the plants sighing their relief. He leaned against the window sill, his chin propped in his hand as he saw the younger man approach the most heavily weeded section of the garden. The garden patch was thick with green, tall grass, clover, crab crass and the random weeds of tiny flowers that bees loved but had no use in a garden; they were simply throw away plants whose seeds were dropped randomly in the guano of birds. All grew up in a veritable Eden in the one section of the garden the Judge always left until it was almost autumn.

He saw McCormick stare across the forest of weeds, shake his head and stand, stretching out his muscles. He tore off his shirt, flinging on the grass nearby and reached for the now full wheelbarrow to bring the spent weeds to the mulch pile. Hardcastle nodded his understanding. He used to bring the wheelbarrow full of discards to the mulch pile himself, mostly to keep the surprise for just a little longer. He relished his son's anticipation and admonitions to hurry back. But now he found himself silently urging McCormick to return to his task quickly. His heart beat just a tiny bit faster, whether in anticipation of McCormick's surprise or in dread of his lack of appreciation, the Judge couldn't tell. All he knew was that he couldn't wait up in the house any longer.

He took the steps as if an intruder was at his door and dashed outside, making sure he was concealed as McCormick brought back the empty wheelbarrow and settled down to continue his chore. He watched with baited breath as the cover of weeds thinned under McCormick's laboring hands. He saw the weeding process slow as McCormick came upon the first of the surprises. Then the young man sped up, wide eyed and a smile spread slowly across his face.

The Judge stepped out now and strode toward the garden, unwilling to be a simple observer any longer. This was his surprise, his tradition. And he had waited for years to see someone actually surprised again.

"Whatsa matter? You look like you found some ruby slippers and you'll finally get out of here."

"Judge!" McCormick spun around still smiling. "There are pumpkins planted here!" He pushed aside the large leaves exposing the orange globes of varying sizes. "Pumpkins!" His eyes were wide.

Hardcastle remembered that look. He'd seen it so many times before, on his son's face, on his wife's face a few times, on Sara's face when she happened to wander on out here once. But it had been many years since he'd seen such wonder.

"What did you think we were going to use for our annual Halloween party?" The judge guffawed, trying to hide his pleasure at McCormick's boyish surprise. "A Halloween party needs plenty of Pumpkins."

McCormick grinned widely. "And I guess we're having a Halloween party?" He turned back to the pumpkins and started pulling more weeds.

Hardcastle fell to his knees beside him and began pulling as well. It felt so natural. He had missed this.

"Judge," McCormick started, raising an orange globe in his hands and staring at it with a smile. "Having pumpkins growing in the yard, well, that's a fun thing. I wouldn't have thought a man of such lofty reputation would have planted a vegetable that's so much fun! Zucchini…sure, that's a staple, and tomatoes of course, what kitchen can do without? And the requisite beans and peas…yes those I can see given your stolid reputation. Things need to follow an orderly pattern; useful vegetables don't take up much room. But PUMPKINS!" Mark shook his head. "They're just fun!"

Hardcastle tried hard to be gruff. He wanted to make sure the young man knew his place in this house. But looking at the twinkling eyes and smile splitting his sweat and grime streaked face even the Judge had to grin. He grabbed a handful of weeds and deftly slipped them free from the soil, tossing them back into the wheelbarrow in one easy move.

"Well," he sputtered, "even an old retired judge has to have some fun. Come on, I'll help you finish. And be careful of the pumpkins, they have more time to grow yet…a work in progress, just like you."

The two men bent into the garden.

The End


End file.
